Category: prose

The Butterfly Collector

November petered out. December whistled on the horizon.  Jack sat at his writing desk and looked onto liquorice daylight which hung on fading ivy. Fingerprints, dead bugs and pigeon droppings adorned his window. Today was one of those writing days where the whiteness of his journal burned his eyes. His pen felt like a heavy wooden club…

Humdrum Days

As a writer, do you ever get those writing days where time seems to go backwards and the tick of a wall clock is louder than your thoughts? I do, on a regular basis. I refer to them as ‘humdrum days.’

Humdrum, has an almost onomatopoeic feel about it. The Oxford Dictionary lists it’s meaning as….

Is Shakespeare Overrated?

The British actress, Dame Judy Dench, once said “a bad experience of Shakespeare is like a bad oyster – it puts you off for life.”

This, it appears, is the case for me.

Before you all start screaming, “Philistine,” I would like to put on record, Shakespeare is probably the greatest and most influential writer to have graced this planet. The fact his work, 400 years on,..

Saturday Never Comes

His history is bullet-pointed on laminated paper and pinned to his bedroom door. I never knew, after the war, he was a goalkeeper for Somebody United, winning trophies and medals. There’s nothing to suggest this amongst his sparse belongings on his small desk; a fading photograph, some medication and wet-wipes, and a half-empty jar of Everton Mints. We sit on his bed and stare into space, and I notice he has goalkeepers’ hands, huge and agitated, as he runs them along the fraying fabric of his trousers.  I wonder what game he is dreaming of. How would I know? I wasn’t around often enough to be part of his fading memories.